Give 'Em a Second Chance
by Ainaof
Summary: Vignettes between characters all tied around the idea of redemption. Today's final ? chapter - Bobby and Castiel. Rated T for some language in a couple chapters.
1. Mary and John

Hi everyone! Thank you for reading - I appreciate your time. If you have the time/inclination, I'd love to know what you think of this. There are about four other chapters to follow. That's the plan, at least. Each chapter will focus on moments between different characters. I hope to have a new chapter up every day or so.

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Give 'Em a Second Chance

John was home with Dean while Mary ran her errands, so there was time. She felt guilty he didn't know one of those errands involved going to the doctor's office. But the need to be _sure_ overrode her guilt. Mary clutched the piece of paper in her left hand and stroked it with the trembling fingers of her right. Strange how such a small thing could frighten her like no supernatural creature ever had. _Positive_. It was positive. For the second time in her life, she was pregnant. And while there was joy in it (Dean was the best thing to ever happen to her, and now he would have a baby brother or sister), she was also sick with anxiety. If his drinking was any indication, John was unhappy in their marriage. She wasn't happy either. They were not getting along well. Only a few days ago, she'd asked him to leave the house for a while, to give them time apart so they could both think. If she couldn't find a way to make it work out with him, she might have to be a single mom, which would be hard. Or worse, she'd have to look up her cousins and ask for help. That would mean raising her children in a world filled with monsters and the people who hunted them. The very thing she been trying so hard to avoid.

She shook her head and placed a protective hand over her stomach. "Don't worry, baby. Mommy will figure this out."

The drive home went too quickly as Mary considered and discarded options. No matter what they decided to do, she had to tell John about the new baby.

When she entered the house, it was quiet. At first she thought John might have put Dean down for a nap, but then she heard a squeal and laughter from out back. Dean came pelting toward her when she entered the yard. He was carrying a baseball and had on one of John's baseball caps, backwards, since it was too big for him.

"Mama, I caught the ball. Daddy throwed it real hard, but I caught it, every time." An enormous grin spread across his cherub face.

"You did? How many times did you catch it?"

"So many times!" He laughed, playing along with their personal joke.

"As many times as there are stars in your eyes?"

"More!" Dean shouted.

"As many times as you have cute little freckles on your face?" Mary tapped one freckle with the tip of her finger.

"Lots more!" Dean was giggling now.

"As many times as you'll hear me tell you I love you?"

"Yep. That many, Mama."

John came over and hoisted Dean up against his shoulder. "Okay, slugger. It's time for you to take a nap now. Mommy and I need to talk."

A scowl flashed on Dean's tiny face. "Not tired," he announced petulantly.

"Sorry. That doesn't matter. It's quiet time now, which means you stay in your bed until you fall asleep, or until quiet time is over. Let's go." John tickled his son as he carried him into the house, ignoring cries of "No. Not quiet time! I'm not tired."

"I'll make us some lemonade to drink," Mary called as John headed upstairs with Dean.

"Thanks," he answered.

When John came back to the kitchen half an hour later, a pitcher of lemonade was in the center of the table, along with the pie Mary made the day before. She cut two slices and placed them on plates, then poured lemonade.

"Did he finally fall asleep, or did it take you that long to convince him he needed to stay in bed?" Mary got some napkins and placed them alongside the plates. Then she retreated to the sink where she washed the knife she'd used to cut the pie.

John chuckled, then said, "He fell asleep as I was reading to him. I spent the last fifteen minutes watching him sleep." He sat at the table and indicated everything she had put out. "This is wonderful, thanks, hon." John gave her the charming smile that always made Mary's heart ache for so many reasons, not the least of which was she saw it on Dean's face at least once a day.

"I need to talk to you." She leaned against the counter, wiping her hands with a towel. Long after they were dry, she clutched the towel in her hands.

John frowned. "Mary, please. I know that I've screwed things up. But I want to come home. I miss you and Dean. I yell too much, I'm bad with money, I can't seem to keep a job... None of that changes the fact that I love you. I love our son, and I want to fix this."

Mary finally sat at the table, running her fingers over the drops of condensation on the side of her lemonade glass."I need you to be someone I can count on, John. I deserve that."

"You do. And more than that. Please, Mary. I can't guarantee that I won't make mistakes. Hell, you know I probably will. I'll keep trying to get it right though. I want to be a good husband for you and a good father for Dean." He pleaded with her, looking into her eyes longingly. When she didn't respond after a minute, he put his hand over hers and squeezed.

"Sweetheart. Give me a second chance."

She closed her eyes briefly, and heard her mother's voice in her head. Against the riot of questions and anxieties in her head, her quiet advice sounded. 'It's never a bad thing to give a good man a second chance.'

"Okay." She sighed, then told him, "I love you. And Dean and Sam deserve to have their father in their lives."

John's smile of relief washed away in shock. He sat back in the chair, still holding her hand. "Dean... and Sam?"

Nodding, Mary placed her other hand over her stomach.

"Really? A baby?" He knelt beside her, cupping his hands over hers. "When?"

"In about five months. Can't you tell? I'm getting fat." She rolled her eyes at herself.

"You're beautiful. And Sam. You already picked a name? It's a boy?"

"I don't know if it's a boy or a girl. Samuel if it's a boy, Samantha if it's a girl. Sam."

John pressed his cheek against her abdomen. "Hey there, Sammy. It's Dad. Love you, kiddo. I want you to know that I'm going to do everything I can to be the best daddy for you and your brother."

Mary chuckled and ran her fingers through John's thick dark hair. When he raised his head, she stroked his jawline.

"I'll do everything, Mary. I'll make sure they grow up strong and good. We will. Together. Promise me?"

She nodded and whispered, "Promise."


	2. John and Dean

Thanks for reading!

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John sat on the couch in their new motel room, cradling the bottle of cheap bourbon in his lap. The neon light from the hotel sign blinked off and on, staining the amber liquid red. With a shudder, John noticed that it looked like blood. With a steady hand he poured another shot and belted it down, trying to get beyond remembering.

_ Mary... eyes dark with fear and hopelessness and pain._

_ Pinned._

_ Burning._

_ The heat of the flames. Sam's infant screams. The smell as the nursery burned. As Mary burned._

John shook his head to get rid of the images. He focused on not thinking, and instead remembered last week. A random motel room in a long string of cheap motel rooms. Bursting in and finding that creature hovering over their youngest. He'd been a useless husband, now he was useless to his boys as well. He'd spent the last several years protecting strangers from the things that went bump in the night, but he hadn't been able to protect his own sons. Or his wife. The fear and the pain and the hopelessness. Everything that Mary felt in that moment, he felt, knowing he hadn't protected them either. Knowing they could get hurt because he wasn't a good enough father. And guilt. Because when he had screamed and raged at Dean, he was really screaming and raging at himself. He was yelling at Dean for failing at what was truly his job, John's job. Technically, he was yelling at Dean for failing twice since he wasn't a decent father for either of his boys. When he could no longer stomach that dose of cold reality, he'd stopped talking to Dean all together, never realizing the silent condemnation was a sharper tool than any words could be.

This time the slug was long and came straight from the bottle.

Later, half dozing on the couch, he heard a sound from the bedroom. Though he knew the shtriga couldn't find them, he got up to check on the boys. He cracked open the door, peering in blearily. Dean looked up from where he was sitting on the bed, legs folded beneath him, shotgun across his lap. He was leaning back against the wall, staring at the window. One hand was on his brother's shoulder, who slumbered next to him. A flashlight lay between them. Dean met his father's eyes and John suddenly realized there were dark circles under Dean's eyes. His clumsiness and fogginess for the past few days clicked in. Dean wasn't sleeping at night, at least not very much. He was staying awake to guard Sam. Probably had since the night a week ago when the sthriga showed up and attacked Sam. Instantly, John felt the rush of shame and guilt chase away any lingering alcohol. Soberly, he motioned for Dean to come with him. With a reluctant glance back at his brother, Dean followed.

John sat with Dean on the couch, leaving the bedroom door open, shotgun next to them on the floor. John waited for him to speak, but his son just sat. It was a silent contest of wills. Finally John decided to crack first and give Dean the victory. It seemed like his son needed it.

"What are you doing awake?"

"I'm making sure that nothing comes after Sam. That the thing doesn't find us."

"Dean, I told you, the shtriga can't find us. I made sure of that."

Dean was stuck. He couldn't say he didn't trust his dad to make sure the monster wouldn't find them without telling his dad that he didn't believe him. And he did basically believe him. But he also couldn't say that the guilt caused by seeing that creature over Sam, knowing that he'd messed up and his little brother almost died because of it, wouldn't leave. It wouldn't let him sleep and had him jumping at every sound in the darkness, waiting to throw his body over Sam's to make sure nothing ever got to his little brother again. They were all feelings he didn't know quite how to put into words, young as he was.

"I know, Dad. I know that it's stupid. But I can't sleep. I need to make sure Sam is safe."

"Dean. Listen to me. You're a good brother and a good son. And I..." John paused, and sighed, "I screwed up." John paused and nodded at Dean's shocked expression. "I screwed up, Dean. When I yelled at you. That monster found the two of you and it scared the hell out of me, knowing that I could have lost you, the way I lost your mother. You boys are my family. You're my sons, and that means more to me than anything else in the world. I love both of you, no matter what. I know I don't always show it. I don't really know how. Your mother was teaching me that." He raised his eyebrows and looked sheepishly at his oldest. "Something else we all lost when she died, huh?" He pulled Dean closer to him, tucking him against his side. Then he looked down into his son's eyes. "You can sleep. I promise you that thing isn't going to find us. We'll get through this. We'll just keep going and we'll get through this. What happened with Sam, that wasn't your fault. I'm to blame. Okay?"

"Yeah, Dad. Okay."

John stood up, gently tugging Dean with him. They walked silently back to the bed and John pulled back the covers. He tucked Dean in next to Sam, then pulled the chair up next to them. After he propped his feet up on the mattress, he placed the shotgun nearby, muzzle pointed at the floor.

"Get some sleep. I'll watch for a while."


	3. Dean and Sam

Thanks to my readers - and special thanks to LeighAnn for always reviewing! It only takes a second but it means so much. Thank you! Also - language alert - there's a bit of swearing in this one.

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Chapter 3

Dean sat in the Impala and watched Sam's shadow move past the motel window again. His brother was restless. Understandable, since he'd only been back for a few days and most of that time Dean spent avoiding him. Sam was forgiven, basically. But trusted? Dean was having a bit more trouble in that department.

Demon blood. Sam was drinking demon blood and working with that Hell bitch. Accusations and arguments ran through his head. How could Sam do this? After everything that happened to them, everything they'd seen, how could he work with one of them? And not just work… ugh. Dean tried to erase the mental image of Sam and Ruby together in bed. She was a demon!

He was on the verge of getting out of the Impala and going into the motel room, strictly so he could punch Sam again. Just beat him until he got his head screwed on straight. Because obviously super-genius Sam was seriously lacking in the common sense department.

"I taught you better than this, Sam," Dean muttered to himself, hand on the door handle. The ever present rage and pain Dean carried since his return from Hell coursed through him, igniting a need to hit and hurt. He pushed open the car door, ready to make Sam his target. After all, didn't his brother deserve it with these stupid choices?

Then Dean's conscience scratched at the edge of his brain. He heard his own voice speaking.

_Yeah, you taught him better. Sure, you did. Taught him what you could, then abandoned his sorry ass. Left him here, alone, in pain, with no one to turn to. Why are you so surprised he turned to her? To _anyone_, for that matter? Like you wouldn't do the same thing. How much of this is anger at Sam? Isn't it really just fear – for yourself? You'd be alone again, like when Sam went to school. Except this time, there wouldn't even be Daddy around to keep the darkness away. And there's so much more of it now, isn't there?_

Obstinately, Dean argued against himself. I didn't leave him alone. He had Bobby. It was the perfect opportunity to go back to his old life. Back to Stanford. Law school. He was free and clear of all this. I would never drink demon blood! I'm not afraid. I'm not.

A dark, bitter chuckle rippled through his mind. _Tell yourself something, Dean. When Sam died and you were alone, was Bobby enough to keep the pain at bay? Or did you speed off to the crossroads before even a single day passed? At least be honest with yourself, for once. You sold your soul to get Sam back. Would you really expect anything different from him? At least you got one lesson through to him. Family is more important than anything else. In a way, Sam sold his soul for you. He utilized different methods, is all. _Dean knocked his head against the headrest a few times. Grabbing the six pack from the seat beside him, he went inside.

Sam looked from his laptop screen as Dean entered the room. For half a breath, his expression was almost hopeful, but he shut that down as soon as it started. As Dean watched, his brother's face blanked, he hunched his shoulders, said nothing, and went back to his research. Dean popped the cap off a bottle from the six pack and sat on his bed. Then he stared, hard, at Sam. His brother surprised him. It took a few minutes of staring before Sam started stealing glances at Dean. Even then, it was a few more minutes before he finally caved and spoke.

"Dean, I'm sorry. I know I screwed up. You don't have to..." This was Sam's 'be reasonable' voice again. He'd tried the pleading voice, the angry voice, the guilty voice, the whiny voice, and a host of others. Dean lost count of how many versions of this apology he'd heard in the last few days. Most of them multiple times. It made him tired.

Without any heat, he said, "Stow it, Sam. Right now. This second. Stop talking. Or I swear I will tape your mouth shut. With industrial strength duct tape." He closed his eyes, trying to summon the right words to express what he needed to say.

There was a soft click as Sam closed his laptop, then a shush of fabric as he rose. Dean was vaguely aware of the familiar sounds of his brother moving around their shared room, probably getting ready for bed. That was okay, Dean thought, relieved. They could talk about this in the morning. He pictured himself squashing the guilt that came with that thought.

Sam went into the bathroom briefly, then came back out. That wasn't right. Dean listened more carefully. More fabric sounds. A few steps to the table, a cord being unplugged. Back to the bed. The zipper on Sam's duffel. He was _packing_.

Dean opened his eyes quickly and saw: Sam's bag on the bed, bulging with his things, the laptop waiting beside it. Instantly, Dean felt it like a physical blow. His gut clenched, his throat felt hot and tight, his chest heavy. _He's leaving again! He won't fight me, fight to _stay_ with me. He doesn't think I'm worth the effort. He doesn't love me. _The four year old that still dwelled deep in Dean's heart cried out in shock. Then Sam shifted, and his face came into view. His eyes were sad and defeated, but he resolutely ignored the few tears that trickled down his cheeks. He cried as a man without hope of redemption, lost to himself, achingly aware there was no act of courage or loyalty great enough to restore the humanity he gambled away. In that moment, Dean saw it. Sam was broken into pieces, and Dean was the hammer. Or at least, one of them. Guilt spiked through him. "Sam," he started.

"It's okay. I get it." Sam's hand shook as he tried put the laptop in its case. He pulled his shoulder up, then rubbed his face against it. After repeating the movement on the other side, he stood for a moment, head bowed. For a second, Dean didn't think Sam would even look at him. Then he did, and it was terrible.

Sam said, "I know I'm worthless to you now. Worse, even. I'm a liability, because you can't trust me to watch your back, can't trust..." He gulped and drew in a deep breath before continuing. "You're right. You shouldn't have to deal with this anymore. After what you did for me, all these years, what you gave up. I owe you a little peace. So I'm going. I'll check in with Bobby once in a while. That way if you want to know, he'll be able to tell you something. Stay safe. Please. Don't take chances. I know you can't ever forgive me. But when it's time, when the fight gets here, I'll be there, if you..."

He trailed off for a moment and Dean knew he was about to say, "if you want me there." Instead, Sam mumbled, "if you let me know." He put the last item in the duffel and zipped it shut. He rested one hand on top of the bag, tapping it gently.

Softly, he spoke. "You should have just let me die, Dean. I wish, for your sake, that I'd stayed dead back then. You would have been free. Out of it all. No Hell, no pain, no nightmares. No me, hanging like a noose around your neck. And I never would have fucked up and destroyed..." Sam gave a twisted grimace, "well, everything, right?" He slung his duffel onto his shoulder and took a few steps for the door.

"It would have been better if you left me dead."

Dean said, "Couldn't." He cleared his throat, and started again. "I couldn't do that. I could never. I will always fight for you."

Without turning, Sam shook his head. "I'm not worth it anymore." As he opened the door, he said, "I don't think I ever was."

"Don't say that. Don't you dare." Dean was off the bed and at Sam's side before he even thought to move. He slammed the door shut and pushed Sam up against it. "You're Sam. You're my brother. You're my family. All the rest of it? We'll figure a way to work it out."

Then Dean pulled his brother into a hug.


	4. Bobby and Sam

Thanks for reading, and for the reviews! You are all spectacular.

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Sam crept down the stairs at Bobby's and made his way to the kitchen. The light shone in the den, but he ignored it in lieu of the cold water jug Bobby kept in the fridge. Right now, he needed something cold. With ice.

He gulped the first glass of water down without pausing, then refilled the glass for a second round. This one he drank halfway, then put it on the counter. He was about to put the water jug away when he thought the better of it and topped off his glass. Then he put the jug back in the fridge.

From the den he heard Bobby.

"Why don't you come in here and get something stronger?"

Sam went in and sat on the couch near Bobby's desk. Bobby held up a bottle of whiskey, but Sam shook his head.

"No thanks. Right now, I need whatever I drink to be cold. That will burn on the way down."

Bobby raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. "More for me, then."

Then sat in companionable silence for some time before Bobby judged that Sam was calmed down enough to talk. Without preamble, he said, "Spit it out before it chokes you, boy."

"I'm fine. It was just a bad dream."

"Bull. Something's eating you. Out with it." The glass thunked as it hit the desk surface. Sam watched the amber liquid swirl as Bobby poured more for himself.

"Sam." Bobby snapped his fingers to make Sam focus on him. The young man's gaze shot up to Bobby. Sam blinked a few times, startled.

With a look of concern, Bobby asked, "Is Lucifer riding you right now?"

Sam shook his head quickly. "No. A bad dream woke me up. My throat was burning from the dream. Just now, I had a flashback."

Frowning, Bobby motioned for Sam to continue. Instead, he hunched his shoulders a little and ducked his head.

"Okay. Start with the dream. Why did it make your throat burn?"

"I... it doesn't matter. I should just go back up to the room. Dean will worry if he wakes up and I'm not there. He worries about me all the time these days."

"If Dean wakes up he will find you downstairs talking to me about thirty seconds after his feet hit the floor. That isn't long enough for worry to really start. Quit dodging the topic. What happened in the dream to make your throat burn?"

Sam muttered in the direction of the floor, "It was more a memory than a dream."

Narrowing his eyes at his foster son's reticence, Bobby asked a third time.

Sam took a gulp of water and answered in a rush, "Lucifermademeswallowsomething."

"What was it?"

"He melted a knife I had on me and made me drink the molten metal."

Closing his eyes, Bobby fought to control the shakes that rippled through his entire body. His hand clenched tight on the glass of whiskey. Without thinking, he pitched the liquid down his throat, choking when the burn reminded him of Sam's words.

Pinning Sam with his eyes, Bobby asked, "Just the once?"

Sam pursed his lips and Bobby knew.

"Damn."

"Yeah. So anyway, that's why the ice water. Sometimes, after a dream, the feel of the memories lingers."

"I'm sorry, son." Bobby placed both his elbows on the desk and leaned forward, toward Sam. "What was the flashback?"

Twirling the ice around in his now empty glass, Sam hesitated to answer.

This time Bobby commanded. "Sam." He waited for Sam to look at him, then continued, "I am too old and too tired to get up out of this chair and walk over there to slap some sense into you. Tell me what you remembered. You haven't had all your memories back that long. We need to know what's going on with you."

"Because I'm a danger."

"To yourself, yeah. Potentially."

"Not just to myself." Sam looked into Bobby's eyes, waiting for the moment. Bobby didn't react at first, then understanding crossed his face.

"Oh. That memory."

"Yeah, that memory." Sam chuckled, but it was a dark, hollow sound that made Bobby shudder. "I don't know how you can even stand to look at me after what I did."

"That wasn't you, Sam. Not really. And you didn't succeed, so as far as I'm concerned, it's water under the bridge."

"The only reason I didn't succeed in killing you is because Dean clocked me over the head and knocked me out. Then he had Death shove my soul back inside and walled up everything that happened for the last year and a half." A little wild-eyed, Sam carded his fingers through his long hair.

Taking a deep breath, Bobby asked slowly, "Do you still want to kill me?"

"Of course not!" Sam surged forward, almost off the couch, then sank back into the cushions. "I would never want to hurt you. Except, apparently, the ruthless side of me that is willing to do _anything_ to make sure I 'get the job done'."

"Yeah, not real fond of that side of you myself. Except in certain circumstances."

"What circumstances would those be?" Sam snorted.

"Well... it was that side of you that helped stop the Apocalypse. Without it, I don't think you would have been able to let Lucifer in, then beat him back out of your mind."

"That wasn't me. That was Dean showing up. He saved me and he saved us."

"Balls. You don't give yourself near enough credit. Yeah, okay, Dean showed up and that helped you regain control. But think about it for a second, would ya? You're a smart boy, I know you can follow this through." He waited while Sam rolled his eyes, then Bobby leaned back in his chair.

"That ruthless side of you knew what you wanted to do was going to hurt you, but you didn't care, because you had to get the job done. That ruthless side of you knew what you were asking Dean to accept was next to impossible for him, but you convinced him, because it needed to be done. That ruthless side of you took back control in that cemetery even though you knew it meant Dean was going to have to watch you jump into that pit. Hurting Dean, disappointing Dean, those are the two worst things you can do, in your mind. Worse than anything else. But you hurt him, because the ruthless side of you knew that in the end, Dean would be alive. And because he's your hero, you believed he'd find a way back. You hoped he would." Bobby looked toward Sam to gauge his reaction.

When Sam shook his head, unable to speak, Bobby sighed and continued softly.

"I have a confession to make. When you were – not yourself – and trying to protect that..."

"By killing you!"

Bobby hushed Sam and glanced at the stairs, wondering if they'd wake Dean.

"There was a part of me that understood. You were trying to protect yourself from a whole lot of potential pain. I get that."

"That's no excuse for what I did. What I almost did."

"Dammit, boy, just let me finish without you jumping on the pity train, would ya?"

"Sorry."

"Uh-huh. What I didn't tell you before, or anyone else for that matter, is that there was a part of me that was glad."

Bobby nodded at Sam's confusion. "I was glad. Partly because if I was going to die, at least I knew it wasn't going to hurt much. I knew you'd make it quick. And I was going to die protecting you, in a twisted sort of way." He glared as Sam opened his mouth to speak. "I ain't finished yet."

He ran his finger along the top edge of his glass. "Mostly, I was okay with it all because... I looked at it like a sort of penance. By dying, I hoped maybe I could set things right with you, somehow, someway. I should have tried harder to be there for you after Dean died. But mostly, I shouldn't have let you say yes. Shouldn't have let you go to Stull. And I should have believed in you, Sam. Finally, I should have gotten you out. I failed you, over and over. But you never changed that way you treated me, never blamed me. Even though you were trying to kill me, a part of me was proud that you considered me a father. But I treated you poorly, and I can never make up for that."

They sat, silent, and stared at each other over the cluttered desk. When Sam didn't respond, Bobby scowled and said, "I'm finished, idjit. You can talk now."

Sam's mouth opened, but no words came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Bobby. I'm so sorry about what happened with us. But the rest? You shouldn't feel bad about any of it. We changed a part of destiny, but only a part. I guess free will only bends so far, huh? But that was never your fault. You've always been there for me. For Dean. Without you, we never would have accomplished half of what we did. Please forgive me."

"Only if you will do me the same favor."

"Like I just said Bobby, there's nothing to forgive."

Bobby chuckled softly then said, "Right back at you, kid. Right back 'atcha." He motioned to the bottle on the desk. Sam lifted his glass and stretched out enough for Bobby to pour a little in his glass. They raised their glasses in a silent toast and drank deep.


	5. Bobby and Castiel

Hi all! So this is the last chapter planned in this little series, unless someone wants to send a suggestion or two. I'm open to writing on demand. Probably be good practice! : Sorry this scene is a day late, life conspired against me. I think I have it (temporarily) tamed now though. Thanks for reading!

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Bobby settled back into couch, smiling a little at Rumsfeld's huff of annoyance.

"If you didn't take up half the damn couch, dog, you wouldn't have to shift every time I needed to get up and check on the food." Rumsfeld lifted his head and stared balefully over his shoulder at Bobby. Then he flopped his head back onto the couch and sighed.

Bobby patted the dog's haunches. "Don't worry, boy. The cornbread is out of the oven now, and the chili is simmering in the crockpot. I don't need to get up again for a while." In response, the dog stretched out even more on the couch.

"Yeah, I thought so." Bobby lifted the dog's rear legs slightly and placed them atop his own thighs. "Now we're both comfortable." He reached down to the shepherd beside the couch and patted her head gently. "How about you, Madeleine? You good?" Her tail thumped against the floor.

"Well okay then. Everybody is all set and I can get back to my reading." Opening the Le Carre novel to the page where he left off, Bobby settled into his book. A few chapters later, Bobby was dozing lightly when a flutter and change in air pressure disturbed him. Rumsfeld lifted his massive head, but set it on the couch again quickly.

"Hello, Bobby. Rumsfeld, Madeleine." The quiet, formal voice sounded.

Bobby opened his eyes and looked over at the angel. "Castiel. Mind telling me what you're doing here? Or how you're here, for that matter?"

Cas frowned. "Why do you think I wouldn't be allowed in Heaven?"

"Considering what you've been up to the last few years, I'd think you'd be persona non grata around here."

"Ah. Yes. That." Castiel nodded briefly and sat in a chair that suddenly appeared behind him.

"Yeah, that." Bobby scowled. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you. Tell me, please. How long have you been here?"

"Huh? What kind of question is that?" Bobby's scowl deepened.

"Please. Just answer." Castiel spread his hands and waited patiently.

"Fine. I stopped haunting the boys a few months ago. After that, I ended up here, surprisingly enough." He paused and sat up straighter. "Sometimes Karen is here. Or Ellen. People visit..."

"But don't stay," Castiel finished for him.

"No. Only the dogs stay."

"So you've been here a few months."

"Seems about right."

Castiel shook his head. "No, Bobby. You've been here a few years. Much has happened since we last saw each other."

"What?" Bobby's sudden movement jolted Rumsfeld out of his lap. The dog stood, circled, and settled opposite corner of the couch. Madeleine lifted her head, then put it back down. Her eyes flicked from Bobby to Castiel and back again.

"It's been a few years? Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Damn." Bobby was introspective for a moment. "How are the boys? They doing okay?"

A quick smile flashed across Castiel's face. "They are both well enough."

Eyes narrowed, Bobby asked, "What does that mean? 'Well enough'?"

"They are alive and uninjured. Not fighting any major enemies at the moment." Castiel shrugged, surprising Bobby. "More than that, I am not allowed to tell you."

"Not allowed? Not allowed! What kind of falderal is that?" Bobby's anger stilled at Castiel's calm demeanor. He fixed his gaze on the angel and said suspiciously, "What _are_ you here for then?"

"I need your help."

"Yeah? With what?"

Castiel leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, then looked directly at Bobby before uttering a single word. "Absolution."

Bobby pulled his ever present baseball cap off his head and ran a hand over his hair. He paused, considering his next words.

"Do I look like some kinda priest to you? Why are you coming to me for that, Castiel?"

"I..." Castiel started, then stopped, reconsidering what he wanted to say. "Dean and Sam, they trust you. I've found you to be intelligent, intuitive, and honest. I cannot speak to my fellow angels of this. Dean does not wish to speak of it. I tried to speak to Sam, but it became more a debate of philosophy. Truly, I wish I could speak to Joshua, or God. I tried speaking to God once. But perhaps I did not understand the response. So though I know I am disturbing you, I hoped that you would allow me... to confess."

The elder hunter blinked a few times, then settled into the cushions. "Okay then, let's hear it."

Castiel's mouth worked as he tried to come up with the words to say. "I was very arrogant in believing that I could contain all the souls in Purgatory and best Crowley. I put the world in danger. In an indirect manner, my actions led to your death."

He stopped, but Bobby just waited. When the silence seemed too long, Bobby motioned for the angel to continue.

"I tried to help Sam. When I failed, I did not ask for help to remedy the situation. Instead I let his soul remain separate from his body, causing him terrible suffering at Lucifer's hands. Then I obliterated the wall that protected him."

This time, the wait continued until Bobby said, "What else?"

"So many things. Terrible things. I've killed other angels. Hurt humans. Practically destroyed the world. Made bad choices. Followed orders blindly. Cared more for human lives than those of my brothers and sisters. Tried to stop the Apocalypse, the destiny of the world that my kind has always anticipated, expected..." His building voice grew quiet. "Started the Apocalypse by betraying my friends." He hung his head, hands clasped in front of him. When he finally looked at Bobby, his blue eyes shone brightly.

"Please. I wish for redemption."

A sarcastic response was on the tip of Bobby's tongue, but he stopped himself. Instead he took a few moments to study the figure before him and collect his thoughts. Then, ready, he began.

"I can't give you what you're asking for, Castiel. But..." He held up a hand to stop the angel's flight. "I want you to think for a minute. Okay?" After a nod, he continued.

"Something keeps bringing you back. We'll say it's God, because, well, you're an angel and that sort of thing just fits. I think that's message enough you are getting another shot, which means you have a chance to fix what you screwed up. It's very human, actually. Sometimes it seems I spent half my life trying to right the wrongs I did. Uselessly, really. You can't change the past."

Castiel shook his head vehemently. "But you changed your behavior because of your past. You didn't make the same mistakes a second time and you tried to create a better world to make up for what you'd done..." He trailed off as he realized what he'd said. "Much as I have done."

Bobby grinned. "See, I knew you had it in you. Listen. John, the boys' daddy? He told me once that Mary told him it was never a bad idea to give a good man a second chance. Thing was, he said, you just had to keep proving you were a good man. The way I see it, you've done that."

Slowly, Castiel nodded, carefully thinking about Bobby's words. He met Bobby's eyes. "Thank you. You've given me much to consider. I'll leave you now." A flutter, and he was gone.

A hint of a smile still tugged at the edges of Bobby's mouth. "You keep taking care of our boys, son. See you later." He picked up his novel again and settled back to his familiar heaven.


End file.
